


A Time to Mourn and a Time to Celebrate

by saxophonesandcuesticks



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Graphic depiction of torture, M/M, Major triggers, eventual smut...., major angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saxophonesandcuesticks/pseuds/saxophonesandcuesticks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jesus fuck Silas. Warn a man before sneakin up on him.” he panted with an exasperated tone, causing the corners of Slick’s soft lips twitch upward on his black shelled face before turning into a soft frown once more. “Dulio, you almost never play that tune unless somethin’s up. Wanna talk?” came the Greek’s reply. Droog shook his head, “No. There is nothing <i>to</i> talk about.” he replied curtly, trying to dissuade the subject before it ended in tears falling from his eyes. Nobody knew of Droog’s birthday or what happened on it, or why he never celebrated it. They’d all asked, but he easily evaded their questions and managed to change the subject too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be the Narrator

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes about the story:  
> -The derse in my AU is very much like a tribal, Ancient Grecian version of Nazi Germany.  
> -The Second Names are basically alias' since one's first name, or 'True Name' is considered heavily sacred.  
> -Derse is also set up like today's world in terms of diverse language and culture, but with an ever raining monarchy above all.  
> -The 'commonly known language' is Latin, but the Royal Dersian language is French.  
> -The Royal Soldiers are _all_ clones and only the clones of high ranking officials are bonded to demons  
>  -All Dersians have the capability to use low grade shadow magic, but the ones capable to have highly powerful magic are the Royal Soldiers, and the Royal Family.  
> -The majority of Royal Soldiers are considered 'common clones' due to the families they are given to and all of the soldiers are put through the Initiation.  
> -All music is banned in the Royal City and so is the use of Imagination (Only Prospitians use it anyways.)  
> -None of the player's 'dream selves' know of Derse's true foundation of blood shed, and control. The monarchy assures it.

He stood in his dark flat that was lit up only by the bustling, busy city below. Clad in just slacks and his dress shirt, he finished the clove cigarette he'd been nursing for about an hour, putting it out in the diamond shaped ashtray Aradia made years ago and then went over to the lonely stand in the corner where his prized alto saxophone sat untouched and unplayed for many weeks. He picked it up with the gentlest of hands, reached for the brass cleaner and delicately cleaned it with a beautiful, graceful precision. Once done and polished, he grabbed the box of well kept reeds and put one in the mouthpiece. With a soft sigh, he resumed his previous position in front of the window and began to play a soulful, yet distant song he knew by heart. The sax resounded beautifully with his play and you could hear the actor behind the cool, collected mask push it aside and pour his heart and soul into the tune. The song itself was beautiful, but the reason behind the play made it so sad. You see, its his birthday. And while Droog will never tell his age, this also marks the anniversary of the day his parents died on his sixteenth birthday and it is also why he never celebrates it anymore. The song he played was an Italian lullaby once sung to him in the sweet mezzosoprano voice of his mother and she was often joined by the Tenor voice of his father. But right here and now, he plays for long, seemingly endless minutes in his own little world, trying to play out his grief and fight the tears threatening to surface. Sometimes it works, other times the tears take over and he cries. And all the while, the bustling city below pays no mind to the grieving mobster in the unlit sky high penthouse ho helped to build their home. Then again, the mobster almost always wore a mask for his emotions that hid everything so no one knew of his troubles or saw his fault in succumbing to the emotions he always had hidden in a neutral expression.

But because he was playing, he never heard Slick walk in. But he felt the warm hand on his shoulder, which caused him to jump hard enough that he would’ve dropped his saxophone had it not been for the neck strap holding it up. “Jesus fuck Silas. Warn a man before sneakin up on him.” he panted with an exasperated tone, causing the corners of Slick’s soft lips twitch upward on his black shelled face before turning into a soft frown once more. “Dulio, you almost never play that tune unless somethin’s up. Wanna talk?” came the Greek’s reply. Droog shook his head, “No. There is nothing to talk about.” he replied curtly, trying to dissuade the subject before it ended in tears falling from his eyes. Nobody knew of Droog’s birthday or what happened on it, or why he never celebrated it. They’d all asked, but he easily evaded their questions and managed to change the subject too. But this time, Silas was being persistent. “I can tell since a few tears fell.” Slick mused softly, wiping away the stray tears. Droog set the saxophone on it’s stand and sat on the couch, motioning for Slick to come sit beside him and the smaller man followed. “You really wanna know Silas?”

“Yes Dulio. Why else would I be pressin th’issue?”

“Alright Silas. Fine. For starters, today is my birthday-”

He was interrupted by Slick, “Holy hell! Why didn’t yo-”

“Silas, shut the fuck up for five minutes. Ok?” he pleaded and managed to get a nod from his boss. “Alright. There is a very specific reason why I don’t celebrate and why I don’t tell anyone. It’s gory as hell and it brings me unwanted pity, but here I go.”

_Two hundred and fifty years ago on this day in Derse, Dulio was in the kitchen with his pregnant mother preparing the batter for a birthday cake while his father was in the living room wrapping some last minute presents with a warm smile on his face when all of a sudden royal soldiers clad in sharp looking uniforms dragged the family of almost four outside to the town square. Once at the destination, they separated the child from his parents and restrained him with strong grips. Another soldier forced the pregnant mother, and father to their knees, their faces looking at their child with sad longing and tearful eyes. Dulio was so confused, “Mamá! Papá! Cosa sta succedendo? Perché fanno questo? (What is going on? Why are they doing this to you?)” the teen cried out in his family’s native tongue of Italian. His mother simply replied, “Mia cara ragazzo, non preoccuparti di ciò che sta accadendo. Basta sapere che siamo così orgogliosi di un uomo che si sta diventando. (My darling boy, do not worry about what is happening. Just know that we are so proud of the man you are becoming.)” He looked around at the people gathering around as the Royal Executioner approached the kneeling parents, “ Ecquid tibi volo dicere puer ante signa relinquit nostras? (Is there anything you wish to tell the child before he leaves to join our ranks?)” They nodded, “Ti vogliamo bene Dulio. (We love you Dulio.)” they choked out, then the Executioner began his work. He first started by stripping them nude and carving tribal markings into their skin, not even caring about their screams or the four month old baby bump on the mother. Then he took a container of what seemed to be a blessed sacrificial salt and pouring it over their bodies, burning the markings and making all three cry out in anguish. No matter how much Dulio fought, he couldn’t escape the soldiers’ grasp and he cried, unable to do anything else but watch. The Executioner then took out a whip with small bits of bone sticking out of it and began to hit them on every side possible. The whipping took an hour on top of the hour it took to carve them. Once done, they were stabbed in the stomach with arrows tipped in poison so that they died slowly and not without anguish. Then the young boy was dragged off to the palace, and never say goodbye to his parents_.

  
When Droog finished talking, he looked at Silas’ face to see his reaction, which was of pure horror. Slick never had this reaction. Ever. But lucky for him, Silas was born into the palace. He never had to go through that pain. “Oh my god. Dulio, you weren’t kidding about the gore.” Slick mused after a few moments of nerve wracking silence. Well, it was a response that didn’t end in pity or sympathy. “Yeah. But now you understand, right?” Slick nodded solemnly, “You of all people never deserved that. Slick knew that Derse could be a cruel, heartless monster of a monarchy, but he had no idea just how bad it could be. And as far as anyone knew, Droog was the only one in the Crew who was a Royal Soldier on Derse. And what Droog described was what Slick knew as the age old tradition of Initiation. He’d never known that they were still practicing the tradition at that time. Being Nobly born had it’s perks. But Dulio? He was more or less given to a poor family since he is a clone and automatically drafted into the Royal Army. Dignitary was his alias but he was also the representative for the Italian community.

 

Quit being the third person narrator. Be Spades Slick. ===>

 


	2. Be Spades Slick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dulio looks like he’s gonna fall apart at the seams. This isn’t good at all. He’s your rock, he’s.......
> 
>  
> 
> everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True names of the Crewmen:  
> Droog: Dulio Dalpiaz (Ita.)  
> Hearts: Henry 'Hank' Barnon (Irish)  
> Slick: Silas Scafaldi (Greek)  
> Deuce: Charlotte 'Charlie' Detrich (Germ.)

Dulio looks like he’s gonna fall apart at the seams. This isn’t good at all. He’s your rock, he’s.......

everything.

 

Soft tears fall down his dark face and you wipe them away gently, silently cursing the whole of Derse when he flinches before relaxing into your hand. “Dulio, guardami per favore. (look at me please.) Odio vedere il tuo bel viso confusa di lacrime. Ma so che tu sei un uomo forte per affrontare questo dolore per anni e anni. (I hate seeing your beautiful face muddled with tears. But I know you are such a strong man for dealing with this pain for years on end.) Non avrai più bisogno di soffrire con questo da solo. Sono qui con voi sentire il mio amore. (You'll no longer have to suffer with this alone. I am here with you my love.)”

Dulio looked at you with warm eyes. Your Italian was still a bit choppy due to the Greek accent, but he smiled slightly, “Grazie Silas. Non ho nulla da dire che può anche essere uguale tuo sentimento. (Thank you Silas. I have nothing to say that can even equal your sentiment.) Tranne forse una cosa ...(Except maybe one thing...)” he paused for a moment before looking into your eyes once more, “Ti amo così tanto Silas. (I love you so much Silas.) Ho sempre, e amerò sempre. (I always have, and I always will.)”

His statement takes you by surprise, but soon you’re grinning like the fucking cheshire cat himself, and you find that you’re pulling him into your lap kissing him softly, “Dio, ti amo troppo. Così cazzo molto. (God, I love you. So fucking much.)” He utters a low purr in reply as he nuzzles your neck. You try talking to him again, but it’s a futile effort since he’s fast asleep. You rub his back, knowing that he needed the rest, especially since it was after four am. The poor guy had been through enough tonight, so you were going to let him sleep in as long as he wished, and GPI help the poor bastard who wanted to wake him up early. And it’s now that you realize he’s quite the heavy fucker, especially since his entire body is nothing but shell and lean, toned muscle underneath. So you adjust yourself to where he’s not cutting off your air supply before drifting off to dreamland yourself.

-:-:-:-:-:-

The next morning you wake up to find your top half is oddly cold and the weight of Dulio on your chest is gone and you sit bolt upright in worry. “Wha-?” you murmur sleepily, since your voice box isn’t quite working yet. But to your relief, you smell the scents of bacon, ham, eggs, hash browns and sausage. He’s just in the kitchen.

..................

..................

Wait a fucking minute.

He’s s’ppossed to be asleep!

“Dulio, what’re you doin?” he asked, confused.

“Making breakfast as usual. I couldn’t sleep and since I’ve been up since about six am.”

“You’re runnin on less than two hours of sleep?”

“Mmmhm.”

“How the fuck do you even do that without being a cranky bitch like I am on five hours of sleep?”

Droog just chuckles, “Silas, I was in the army. I have run on ten minutes and three espressos before. Two hours for you is like eight hours to me. Even after all this time.”

And here’s why you marvel at him so. And why you went red for him. Even though your kismesis is his morail, you love him so goddamn much. Yeah, you’re being a sappy bitch right now, but it’s true. You never realized how well the two of you fit together. It’s better than you and Miss Pain- er, Elizabeth. The Prospitian is a beautiful dame by both yours and Dulio’s standards, but she friend-zoned the two of you after some experimental dating and fucking between you and Droog. Uh, not at the same time though.

Soon enough you’re pulled from your thoughts as Dulio calls everyone into the dining room for breakfast. Hank and Charlie stumble out from their room. She’s wearin a tank and what looks to be a modified pair of his boxers as her pyjama shorts, not to mention the fact that they’re both slightly rumpled from sleep and quite possibly sex. You snigger, and a grin that’s cheesier than the eggs on Charlotte’s plate is plastered on your face. “So,” you begin, and it’s hard to keep from cackling, “did you two hit the sack hard and fast, or did’ja hit it nice and slow?” Charlie looks as though she’s going to tear your eyes out, and that’s not her short term memory loss talkin. Henry started off glaring, but dissolved into a fit of chortles the moment Dulio lost it from the kitchen. Soon Deuce gives in and she busts a fucking gut.

-:-:-:-:-:-

After breakfast Hank and Charlie dress, then leave to go watch a play and catch a rom-com at the theater, leaving you and Dulio alone. He starts putting up the food, so you help by rinsing off plates, “So, you have any plans?” you ask shyly, breaking the comfortable silence in between. “Actually I don’t have anything to do for once. I do have to go visit mom and dad at some point today since I forgot yesterday.” his words let you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding and you feel a soft pang of sadness in your chest in the latter. But you did good and said nothing. Anyways, you had gotten him a little something, for yesterday, but you had no idea how he would take it. “D’ya wanna watch a movie? I’ve grown quite a fondness for ‘The Artist’ and I figured you haven’t seen it yet...” Droog knew of your obsession for silent films and he loved them too. But to your relief, he nodded and looked at you with a soft smile.

 **  
**He started the movie and about halfway through, you got up to go take a piss and you grabbed the present out of your end table drawer. It was small and expensive as fuck, but it was worth every penny in your eyes. The high price you paid for this was nowhere near the price he paid for his life. You then grab the card that Lizzie painted and you put a little heartfelt message in it with your scrawly signature ending it. Once done, you gather your wits and head back out to Droog, present in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's short, and a filler of sorts, but I'm wanting to take my time with this one. uvu


End file.
